


Doomed

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 07:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12765783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Was it healthy? No. Did any of them regret a second of it?Also no.





	Doomed

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Обречённый](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776544) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> I don't even know. It just sort of happened.

They met on two sides of a gun.

No; he introduced himself five minutes earlier, with a bullet in Commander Elfman’s brain. Jack was just an overambitious rookie, and this was one of his first missions. He was alone with Elfman until blood and brain matter splattered his face and only a wall was separating him from death.

“Come out, motherfucker!” Crossbones yelled, his bullets hitting the wall Jack’s back was pressed against. “Come out, you pussy!”

( _“They call him Crossbones because he’s dangerous,” Elfman says. It sounds so cheesy, but no one is laughing._ )

But the first time Jack saw his face was down the barrel of his gun. Crossbones’ mask, black with a white skull, got ruined and discarded on the ground, and Jack was looking into hazel eyes when he drove him against the wall, the end of his gun pressed underneath Crossbones’ chin. He hesitated.

Crossbones smiled.

It was a taunting kind of smile – _do it, do it, I know you won’t –_ a kind of smile that made Jack keep his finger off the trigger.

( _He’ll leave out this moment in his report later, knowing he’ll never be able to explain._ )

The next thing he knew, the gun flew out of his hand and sharp pain pierced his left side. He took a stumbling step back, looked down at a knife handle sticking out of his gut. He fell, splatters of blood on the mask lying just beside his face mocking him. A boot dug in inches away from his wound when he tried to scramble off the ground, drawing a yell from his throat. Crossbones watched him with a calculated look but not without curiosity; something about Jack must have piqued his interest.

( _“He likes to play with food,” Elfman says grimly. “Some of our agents had a misfortune to survive him. Murillo, Jordan. They told terrible stories.”_

_“Never heard of them,” Jack says._

_“No wonder, kid, they don’t go out much these days.”_ )

“Just who are you?” Crossbones asked when the pressure lessened and the pain was no longer blinding.

“Jack Rollins, agent of SHIELD,” Jack spat, though it should have been obvious from the STRIKE emblem on his shoulder.

“Heh.” Like it was amusing. “Brock Rumlow, agent of destruction.”

And Jack heard enough to believe him.

They both tensed at the sound of swift footsteps; Crossbones looked up towards the narrow corridor where Elfman’s body lay, the tip of his boot pressing in on the wound, drawing more blood and pained groans. Then the boot was gone and Jack finally managed to prop himself up on one elbow to take a look around the concrete room. He recognized the man whose metal hand closed around Crossbones’ throat; he never before saw him, but he heard of him. _The_ Asset. The Fist of Hydra.

Crossbones couldn’t draw a breath but he was smiling the same smile again; the smile of a man who was going to die and who didn’t care in the least – _what, you gonna kill me?_

Jack rested his head on the concrete floor. A pool of blood was growing beneath him. Dark spots danced in front of him.

“спать.” In a voice rough from disuse. “Go to sleep.”

Jack wasn’t sure who the words were aimed at.

 

\--

 

As Jack was later informed, this was a recruitment mission all along. They didn’t care about the crime lord whose head of security Crossbones was, nor did they care about his crew. All they wanted was Crossbones.

( _“He belongs with Hydra,” Pierce says and Jack doesn’t know what it means, not yet._ )

 

\--

 

The next time Jack saw him, Crossbones was tied to a chair, his armor gone but his mocking smile and just a bit of craziness in his eyes still present. They were underground, in a part of Triskelion not everyone had access to – not everyone _wanted_ access to. The room was filled with Strikers, all the Hydra ones. Crossbones was drawing attention – all bulging muscles and attitude almost made everyone in the room convinced the ties weren’t gonna hold him for long.

But Pierce was also in the room, his vest carelessly unbuttoned, hands in the pockets of his slacks, his aura of power and confidence suppressing Crossbones’.

“You a boss here?” Crossbones sneered, trying to feign a sense of control. “Don’t I have a right to a phone call?”

“Oh, you’re not a prisoner, Mr. Rumlow,” Pierce explained patiently. “There are no prisoners with Hydra, just order.” He walked across the room like he was enjoying a stroll in a park, reached a silver case and opened it, revealing a set of tools. “And order only comes through pain. Are you ready for yours?”

They gave him so much pain, he’d be begging for death if he remembered how to sound out words.

And yet when they were done and Pierce said, “Join us,” Crossbones smiled from behind damp strands of hair falling onto his face, a smile of a man who lost everything.

“Go fuck yourself,” he croaked out.

He was still smiling when Pierce backhanded him.

 

\--

 

There might have been no prisoners with Hydra. They might have called Crossbones a recruit. The fact was, they kept him in a cage, like a wild dog. Most of the time, he was too out of it to complain.

Jack was not supposed to be there, but as long as Crossbones remained in the cage, no one really cared. It was a blessing because if anyone asked him what the hell he was doing, he wouldn’t be able to explain. He couldn’t explain it even to himself.

Perhaps it was the smile. Or the eyes. Or that in his dreams, he was not saved by the Asset.

He crawled in the cage with a wet rug and a bottle of water. Crossbones’ eyes were closed when Jack washed his face from sweat, blood and other fluids he preferred not to wonder about, and he wasn’t moving, but when Jack took the rug away, his eyelids raised, pupils enlarging and shrinking as they focused on him.

“I know you,” he croaked out.

“You do.”

It took a moment, but he connected Jack’s face to the right memory. “You’re the pussy that didn’t have the balls to kill me.”

Jack’s only response was a sigh. He wasn’t a man of many words.

“Should’a fuckin’ pulled the trigger, kid.”

Put out the light in these eyes? Shoot a bullet through this smile?

Performing a complex brain surgery would be easier.

 

\--

 

They broke him. Everyone broke eventually. Not only they promised the pain would end, they offered a sweet deal. There came a point not even Crossbones could say no to that.

They put him on STRIKE right away, skipped the Academy. He already received special training – it would take ages for his fingernails to grow back.

It weren’t the fingernails Jack missed when he saw him for the first time in weeks. The light in his eyes dimmed, the smile was gone. He was skittish and kept his distance from other agents.

( _“Is that what we wanted?” Jack asks, and he’s smart enough to keep concern out of his voice._

 _“He’ll remember how to bite soon enough,” Foster says. “Beasts like him always do.”_ )

They happened to have neighboring lockers. Crossbones – _agent Rumlow_ – flinched when Jack raised his hand to open his.

“Hey,” Jack said.

Rumlow took a second look at him.

“I remember you,” he said finally, his voice reminding Jack of the Asset. “You’re the pussy kid.”

“I’m the pussy kid,” Jack confirmed, resigned. He’d have to get used to that nickname until, hopefully, Rumlow learned his name.

“Remind me, how many times did you visit me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Once.”

“Just once? So I imagined all the other times?”

“You did?”

Their eyes locked, and it happened – a corner of Rumlow’s mouth raised in a little mocking smile.

“Apparently.”

 

\--

 

It happened fast. Too fast for them to have a chance to think about it. Jack expected it to end even faster. He waited for a knife, for a woman, whatever – a heartbreak, basically. He waited for a year, two, seven, a decade. He still was the only one Brock would come to after a mission. A day off. Lazy day in the office. Busy evening in the gym.

It happened fast, it was wild and it never really slowed down, because living slow with Brock was impossible.

( _“I was a shark in previous life,” Brock says over a mouthful of doritos. “Move or die.”_

_“It’s hilarious you believe in reincarnation,” Jack says._

_“Shut up. You were a fucking squid.”_

_“Squids are very intelligent, I’ll have you know.”_

_“Shut up.”)_

They both knew it had to end. They always fucked like it was the last time. They never made plans. Never called each other anything other than friend. Jack knew Brock had a dating app on his phone. He also knew he never met anyone on it. Brock knew Jack would pick up girls in clubs. He also knew nothing ever happened because it was his bed Jack always ended up in.

It wasn’t a love story, but then again, they weren’t a couple. More like friends with benefits.

Friends loved each other, too.

Not that either ever said anything. Jack would save the last chip for Brock, bring him coffee to bed, watch those stupid slashers with him and buy him shit he didn’t ask for but he wouldn’t say he loved him. But did he need to if he only looked at Brock like he was a miracle? Did Brock need to say it back if he looked at him the same way when he thought Jack didn’t see?

And yet, they were waiting.

 

\--

 

“What would you do if Hydra ordered you to kill me?” Jack asked one quiet evening, during a break from playing Silent Hill. There was only one small lamp on, and they couldn’t see each other’s faces well, what made it easier to talk about serious stuff.

Brock bit into the last slice of pizza, chewed carefully before swallowing. “I’d fuck you sweetly. I’d worry your earlobe and ask you to close your eyes. Then I’d put a bullet in your brain. And I’d keep fucking you. I’d fuck you through it all. So if I go easy on you? Knock me out and run.” He took another bite. “How ‘bout you?”

Jack blinked. “Same.” He resumed the game.

The sex was always rough and fast, like they had to hurry before the apocalypse started.

 

\--

 

Foster was right – whatever they did to Brock during his recruitment, it didn’t debilitate him. Looking back, Jack thought it only made him stronger. Wilder. More efficient.

More sadistic? Maybe.

He heard complaints from his teammates. They didn’t like going on missions with Brock and without Jack.

( _“You got him tamed,” Westfahl says with a mixture of envy and respect. “You don’t know what he’s really like.”_ )

Jack thought he saw glimpses of that – every time Brock played with his victims. Every time he got to finally make a kill – a slow and messy one. Every time Brock faced death, was it from a hostile or unforgiving ocean or a bomb or debris, the smile that made Jack fall in love with him was there, challenging the world.

He didn’t see it when Brock was bleeding out so fast Jack felt the life escaping him. Not when he was lying in hospital bed after a surgery he barely survived. Not when he had that soft, vulnerable look on his face the moment he opened his eyes and they locked with Jack’s.

But his teammates wouldn’t see it because they didn’t want to. Brock was like a bull to them – no one cheered for a bull in a bullfight.

Stitches were still holding Brock’s stomach together when he demanded to be discharged and Jack took him home – which was becoming less _Brock’s_ home and more _their_ home, considering how much time Jack spent there, even when Brock was away on a mission. Brock latched onto him as soon as they crossed the threshold, molesting his neck and undoing his pants, thirsty for him after days of lying in bed, doing nothing. Jack knew it drove him both crazy and horny and it pained him to pull his hands away.

“You can’t strain yourself,” he reminded. “Unless you want the stitches to break and your guts to spill.”

“Then be gentle.”

Jack looked at him wide-eyed.

Brock Rumlow wanted him to be _gentle_.

He was never more turned on in his life.

 

\--

 

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

Brock kissed Jack’s scraped temple, like he wanted to hide what he just said beneath it. Brock Rumlow never ran from bad feelings. He faced them with a daring smile.

Brock Rumlow was scared.

Jack didn’t respond, as was his habit. He cupped his face and looked him in the eyes.

“It’ll go to shit, I know it,” Brock continued. “We didn’t stop him. We won’t. We can’t.”

Brock was right; not even the Asset, the Fist of Hydra who easily put an end to Crossbones, could stop the destructive force that was Captain America.

( _Jack still sometimes dreams about a metal hand closing on Brock’s throat and he’s angry, so angry their little tête-à-tête was interrupted._

 _Then he wakes, sees Brock sleeping soundly beside him, and knows in an instant he wouldn’t change a thing._ )

Perhaps it was the end they were waiting for. Not a woman. Not the flame burning out. Just Captain America playing a hero.

“What would you do if we retired?” he asked, just to take Brock’s mind off of it.

“I’d fuck you.”

Brock mouthed at the side of his neck. Jack smiled.

“What would you do if we were lying almost naked in bed, waiting for a disaster?”

Later – much later – when Brock was drifting off with his face buried in a pillow and Jack’s fingers tracing patterns onto his still sweaty skin, Jack asked, “Were you gonna kill me?”

Brock fidgeted, the muscles under Jack’s fingertips tensing up, so he clarified, “The day we met. Before the Asset pulled you off of me. Your knife in my stomach, you looking at me like your prey. Were you gonna kill me?”

“I was thinking about keeping you, actually,” came a muffled answer. “Claiming you. Marking you as mine. I’d keep you on a leash, like a fucking dog. Those fucking goons I had to work with would wanna pet you, but I wouldn’t let ’em.”

Jack swallowed thickly. “I think I’d like that.”

“I already did that, you idiot.” Brock raised his head to look at him. “And you loved every second of it. You begged for more.” And he smiled, that cruel smile that made cruel things to Jack’s heart. “The leash is metaphorical, of course.”

 

\--

 

Did Jack know that when Brock sent him upstairs to back up Pierce, it was the last time they saw each other? He suspected it. But he complied without even a word of goodbye.

And then the sun fell from the sky and the world never saw light again.

( _No, it’s a hellicarrier that falls and buries_ Jack’s _sun underneath fire and debris, plunges_ Jack’s _world into darkness._ )

Their story wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t special. It wasn’t worth telling your children about. They weren’t soulmates, just two men who met and fucked a thousand times. And then they drifted apart.

( _No, they are forcefully separated._ )

It couldn’t be called a love story because there was nothing romantic about it. It was violence and lust and insanity that ruined them both. It was nothing a sane person would ever dream about.

Jack would never exchange it for anything, not even for the sweetest love that never died.

He didn’t think it would feel like love.

**Author's Note:**

> These two. Over a decade of being exclusively together and they still try to (ineptly) convince themselves and everyone around them it wasn’t a loving relationship. And the pattern was “I love you” traced over and over onto Brock’s skin.


End file.
